“Touching the jolly old masterpiece,” he said, “how about it? I think it’s time we hoisted it up somewhere.”
Lucille fiddled pensively with her coffee-spoon.
“Archie, dear,” she said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“And a very good thing to do,” said Archie. “I’ve often meant to do it myself when I got a bit of time.”
“About that picture, I mean. Did you know it was father’s birthday to-morrow?”
“Why no, old thing, I didn’t, to be absolutely honest. Your revered parent doesn’t confide in me much these days, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, it is. And I think we ought to give him a present.”
“Absolutely. But how? I’m all for spreading sweetness and light, and cheering up the jolly old pater’s sorrowful existence, but I haven’t a bean. And, what is more, things have come to such a pass that I scan the horizon without seeing a single soul I can touch. I suppose I could get into Reggie van Tuyl’s ribs for a bit, but—I don’t know—touching poor old Reggie always seems to me rather like potting a sitting bird.”
“Of course, I don’t want you to do anything like that. I was thinking—Archie, darling, would you be very hurt if I gave father the picture?”
“Oh, I say!”